Playing Dead

Chapter 19

Cara was shopping, as she often was, when the man with the scarf hiding the lower part of his face came up to her.

‘Cara Mancini?’ he asked, his voice muffled.

Cara was both startled and puzzled. How did he know her? He sounded English. And why the hell was he wearing a thick knitted scarf on a summer’s day? He looked cloak-and-dagger, like a spy in one of the old movies. Now she wished she’d had Fredo come in with her today, but she hated his guts, hated him anywhere near her; she hadn’t wanted him trailing after her.

‘You’re married to Rocco Mancini, that’s right?’ he said, and she was struck now by how attractive his clear grey eyes were, how thick and glossy his chestnut-coloured hair. But the scarf . . .?

He saw her looking at it.

‘Neuralgia,’ he said, patting it. ‘I’m a martyr to it, sadly. I’m an old friend of Rocco’s. Can we go somewhere and talk for a moment?’

Cara suppressed an impatient sigh. She didn’t want to sit somewhere with this weirdo and talk about the cheating yellow-bellied shit she was married to.

‘Look, I’m sorry, but I really have to go.’ She was moving past him, moving away.

He stopped her with a hand on her arm.

‘Please,’ he said desperately. With fumbling fingers – two of them were no more than stumps, she noticed in horror – he pushed the scarf aside.

‘Oh my God,’ whispered Cara as she saw the puckered purple slits on either side of his mouth.

She pulled back, revolted. And then she thought, oh shit, it’s him. It’s Frances Ducane, that actor Fredo cut up, Rocco’s lover.

All the blood left her face and she felt as if she was going to faint. He’d found out she’d instigated that. He knew she’d set Fredo on him. She started to pull away, to flee. He was going to hurt her, scar her too. She’d been through so much, had to tolerate Fredo pawing at her, sliming over her, and for what? Now it was all backfiring on her, it was all going bad. She opened her mouth to scream, but she was so terrified that she couldn’t even draw breath.

‘Please don’t go,’ said Frances, and something in his voice arrested her, made her freeze to the spot. She looked into his eyes, which were brimming over with tears.

‘You see what he did to me?’ he sobbed. ‘You see what that son of a bitch Rocco had someone do, just because he’d had enough of me?’

Cara took a breath as his words sank in. He didn’t think she was responsible; he was blaming Rocco.

Cara gulped in air, composed herself, tried to get her racketing heartbeat back under control.

‘How could he have done anything so awful?’ she demanded. ‘Look, there’s a café over there. Let’s go get a drink, and you can tell me all about it . . .’

Chapter 20

Annie Carter-Barolli was slipping on a pale blue silk shift in front of her dressing-table mirror. She turned sideways, slid a hand over her full belly.

‘Shit,’ she said as she glanced at her reflection.

‘What’s that for?’ asked Constantine, coming through from the dressing room shrugging on his jacket, shooting his cuffs. His tie was hanging loose around his neck.

‘I won’t be able to wear even these slightly fitted things soon,’ she sighed.

The day of Lucco Barolli and Daniella Carlucci’s wedding had dawned bright and clear, as if the gods were smiling upon Long Island. The bride, with her mother, her sisters and her cousins, was up in the guest wing, putting the finishing touches to her ensemble. The house was in happy chaos, with the garden being set out for the ceremony with elaborate rose arches all the way up the pathway leading to the altar, where the priest would perform the ceremony. Small gold chairs had been set out in neat rows; florists were hurrying around. The caterers had arrived and taken over the kitchen. At the side of the house, long trestle tables were being covered in pink damask. Elaborate floral arrangements were placed down the centre to form a cascade of white, cream and lemon. The best silverware was being laid out with military precision; glasses were being polished by uniformed waiting staff until they sparkled in the sunlight.

By early afternoon the guests were taking their seats for the ceremony. As Annie checked her appearance, Constantine came and stood behind her, his eyes meeting hers in the reflection.

‘You look beautiful,’ he said. ‘You’ll look beautiful when you’re as big as the side of a house, too.’

Layla came running in. She was wearing a long pink taffeta dress with a matching headdress of pink and white roses. She was going to be flower girl today, scattering rose petals beneath the feet of Daniella the bride. Her dark green eyes, an exact match for Annie’s, shone with excitement. ‘Mummy, I’ve lost my flower basket!’

The nanny, Gerda, a thin, solemn-faced Nordic blonde, came dashing in after Layla, looking embarrassed. ‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Barolli. Come on, Layla, I know where it is.’

‘You like my dress?’ asked Layla, twirling around.

‘Spectacular,’ said Annie, and Layla sped off with her nanny. The door closed behind them. Annie turned to Constantine with a slow smile. ‘Do you think they’ll be happy?’ she asked, knotting his tie for him.

‘Who? The bride, Layla . . .?’

‘The couple.’ Annie completed the knot and smoothed her hands down over his chest.

Constantine’s mind was suddenly full of an image of Cara, in tears over the state of her marriage. He sighed. ‘I hope so.’

‘But you don’t think so?’ she asked.

He linked his arms around her waist, nuzzled her neck. ‘I know you haven’t found Lucco the easiest person to get on with.’

There was an unspoken world in that simple sentence. Lucco hated her: always had, always would. She tolerated him, no more than that. Constantine was no fool; he had seen the friction between them – he could scarcely fail to.

‘I hope they’ll be happy,’ said Annie. For Daniella’s sake.

‘Have you considered the diplomatic corps as a career?’

‘Since marrying you? About once a day.’

‘We met on Cara’s wedding day,’ he said. ‘You remember? In London.’

Annie thought of the grey rainy streets, the old Palermo club that was now called Annie’s. She thought of Dolly running it, with Tony ferrying her around town, and Ellie in charge of the Limehouse knocking-shop where once she herself had reigned as queen. A hard pang of homesickness hit her. She was having a baby in a foreign country with a Mafia boss. Her friends were far away and her new husband’s family had not welcomed her – well, Alberto had, but that was all.

Oh, she kept busy here. She was going to launch the club in Times Square next year, and meanwhile she saw to the running of this household, and to the elegant, sprawling New York penthouse by Central Park where she spent a greater part of her time when Constantine was busy. She’d made many acquaintances but no real friends. In fact, she felt she was viewed more as a temporary curiosity than a permanent fixture, accorded politeness and respect because she was Constantine’s wife, certainly; but the warmth was only a veneer, not truly felt.

‘I remember,’ she said. London was a world away. This was her life now. She sighed and put her head against his chest. He kissed her hair, inhaling the clean, sweet scent of it.

‘What?’ he asked. ‘Something up?’

‘Nothing.’ She looked up at him. She was the luckiest woman in the world. She had Layla; she had this stunning man in her bed; she was carrying his child; she had her own business interests – funded partly with Mafia money, but so what? – and she lived in comfort and security. What more could any woman want?

Constantine glanced at his Rolex. ‘It’s time we were downstairs,’ he said. He turned her in his arms and kissed her mouth.

‘Ruining my lipstick,’ she complained against his lips.

‘Yeah? Sue me,’ he said, and kissed her harder.

Chapter 21

Lucco made an impressive bridegroom. He was as smoothly, slickly handsome as always, his dark hair gleaming, his elegant bearing showing off his white jacket and bow tie to its best advantage. Daniella, an averagely pretty girl, looked almost beautiful today, her face flushed with happiness. She had many gifts of money pinned to her bridal gown, in the Sicilian tradition.

‘She looks gorgeous,’ said Annie at one point to Cara as they were standing beside each other. ‘So happy.’

Cara turned her head and gave a tight little smile to her stepmother.

‘That won’t last,’ she said. ‘Not with Lucco. She’ll soon learn.’

Annie went to ask her what she meant – she thought she knew, anyway – but when she looked at her stepdaughter’s face, Cara was staring across the garden at one of Constantine’s men. Annie recognized him as one of several drivers who ferried the family around, a tall young man with a sullen look to him. Cara’s face was set in an expression of extreme dislike. The young man – Annie thought his name was Fredo – gave a sneering half-smile in return.

Before Annie could speak again, Cara moved away.

‘Stepmom,’ said a male voice behind her.

Annie turned. It was Alberto. She smiled. Alberto was so like Constantine to look at; nothing like him in character. Constantine was an authoritarian with an edge of fire; Alberto was smoother and, if he had aggression – and she knew he must – it was more rigorously controlled than his father’s.

‘Stepson,’ she greeted him.

He kissed her cheek. ‘Having a good time?’

‘Oh, spiffing.’

‘Spiffing?’ He laughed. ‘What the hell does that mean?’

‘It means great.’ They stood side by side, looking at the happy couple at the high table.

‘Isn’t she lovely?’ marvelled Alberto, watching the bride. ‘Just think of it – Lucco, married. You know what, that’s scary. It’ll be me next.’

‘Anyone in mind?’

‘Would you divorce Papa and marry me instead?’

‘That’s a tempting offer, but no, I don’t think so.’

‘Then I don’t have anyone in mind.’

Annie smiled at him. She liked Alberto’s ways. In business he was polite and efficient. In his social life, she had found him to be the same. When he had women in his life – and there had been a few – he treated them well and somehow always managed to part from them on good terms.

‘Is Cara all right, do you think?’ she asked him.

‘Cara?’ Alberto looked over to where Cara was now standing, deep in conversation with Aunt Gina. ‘Why? Has she said something?’

‘No, nothing at all. It’s just a couple of times she’s seemed . . . I don’t know, sort of upset.’

‘She hasn’t said anything to me. I think maybe Rocco and she have been going through a rough patch again. Happens a lot, believe me.’

That probably explained it. Or did it? Annie thought again of the look that had passed between Cara and the young driver. Sick and furious on Cara’s part; sort of gloating on Fredo’s.

‘Well, better mingle,’ said Alberto, and was off among the crowds again. He met up with Rocco.

And there’s another miserable face, thought Annie.

Rocco was more than miserable. He soon made his excuses to get away from his brother-in-law. He was feeling too tense and unhappy to socialize, but he’d had to come today. It was expected of him; there was no way he could back out. Frances was making a thorough pest of himself. He’d only phoned at first, and then, when Rocco had blocked all his calls, he’d written letters, pouring out his heart, saying that he still loved Rocco, why had Rocco hurt him like that, why didn’t Rocco love him any more?

Rocco certainly did not. He ripped up all the letters and didn’t bother to reply. And then Frances had shown up at his door.

‘What the fuck do you want from me?’ he’d screamed at him, distressed by even looking at him.

My God, the ugliness of his face now. His mouth looked as though it reached his ears. There was purple mottled scarring, and the marks where the stitches had come out, and two of his fingers ended in stumps. Jesus, he was a mess!

‘I wanted to see you. That’s all,’ said Frances, trembling with the force of his love and desire for this heartless son of a bitch.

‘Well I don’t want to see you,’ said Rocco coldly. ‘And I’m warning you . . .’

‘What?’ Frances couldn’t believe it. The man he loved, the man he’d thought loved him, had defaced him, and was now threatening him again?

‘You heard. Try to come anywhere near me again and you’ll be sorry.’

Then, shaking, Rocco had slammed the door in that repulsive face. Frances had stayed there for almost half an hour, hammering on it, begging, crying, pleading. Rocco had stood there listening to it all, trembling all over, chewing his nails, wondering how the hell he could get rid of this monster.

But finally Frances had gone. And – so far – he hadn’t come back. But Rocco’s biggest fear was that he would. And he blamed his wife over and over in his mind, cursed her name, because she had caused this thing to be unleashed upon him – her and her father. As for his own father – well, nothing new there. His father didn’t give that about him.

Annie saw that the light was going now. A cool evening breeze was coming in off the ocean. Gerda came over, ushering a tired-looking Layla in front of her.

‘Say good night to your mama, Layla,’ said Gerda.

‘Night-night, Mommy,’ said Layla, holding up her arms for a kiss and a cuddle. Annie happily delivered both.

‘You had a good day, sweetie?’ she asked, hugging her tight, inhaling the sweet scent of her skin.

‘Yeah, good.’ She grinned.

‘I’ll be up later to tuck you in, okay?’

The evening stars were winking on up in the blackening heavens. The mariachi band struck up and the bridal couple took to the floor to cheering and clapping. Other couples started to drift onto the dance floor. She saw Constantine in a huddle with several other men, talking intently.

She watched him, concerned. She’d heard the rumbles about the Cantuzzi clan; there had already been trouble. Shit, there was always trouble. But he seemed to handle it well; nothing ruffled him. At least, nothing appeared to. Sometimes she found it hard to equate the two strands of his personality – the cool, controlling Don, and the tender, considerate husband. Sometimes he seemed like two different men entirely.

She went to slip upstairs but, as she passed the doors onto the terrace, she saw that there was no one out there. She went outside onto the decking, and was instantly enveloped in the rush and thunder of the ocean, the stiff breeze riffling through her hair. She walked to the edge of the terrace and looked over the deserted beach, breathing deeply of the fresh, tangy air. The presents were piled up on the table at the end of the terrace, ready for the Don to present them to the couple at ten o’clock.

God, she was tired! The pregnancy was taking a toll on her energy levels. She gripped the rail and looked up at the nearly full moon. It was so weird to think that men had walked up there; that Apollo 15 was in orbit right now, gliding through space.

‘Honey? What are you doing out here all alone?’ asked a voice behind her.

‘Just taking a moment,’ said Annie, turning to smile at Constantine as he stepped out onto the deck and closed the French doors behind him. He looked at the pile of presents and picked up the one at the front of the table, the biggest, with a red bow over sky-blue paper. ‘Hey, wonder what’s in this one?’ he asked, walking towards her.

Then her whole world exploded.

Majorca

Chapter 22

February 1970

The first thing the man knew was pain. Pain, then blinding light. Something was moving through the light. Shapes. Maybe birds.

Buzzards?

They were circling overhead, like in an old Western movie when the gunman’s been laid out to die by the Sioux or the Apache. He’d been laid out to die too, and die he would, because for sure he couldn’t move. Everything was pain. Any movement – oh, and how he had tried to move – hurt like a bastard. So he’d just lie back and let it all unravel. He had decided that was the best thing to do. Let the buzzards come down and pick him clean. Get it over with. No more struggling, no more fighting.

Thoughts, though. His thoughts said move. His guts said move.

Couldn’t. No good.

Images too, drifting through his brain. A shot. A man falling into the pool, a spreading stain of crimson tinting the water. A girl, screaming.

Move, you sod. Come on.

But his body wouldn’t listen to the urgings of his mind. It said no. You kidding? Lie there and die, man, we are all out of alternatives.

His mouth was so dry. His lips felt cracked. The sun was burning him. Burning him up. He closed his eyes.

Bells.

Tiny tinkling bells – now he was hearing things. Maybe this was what it was like, dying; maybe everything went blank, like his mind was blank right now. Why couldn’t he think straight, what was wrong with him . . .? Maybe the blankness came first, and then the bells. They were getting louder. He’d be hearing heavenly choirs next and, frankly, that would be nice. He could just give up, and die.

But for now, it was just bells. Getting louder and louder. And now . . . a little movement, a little wetness nudging at his neck. Something was there. An angel, must be. Bringing him water. He forced his eyes to open.

He looked into slitted eyes, devil’s eyes.

Ah shit.

Not heaven then, and no angel coming to fetch him. He was bound for hell. This was an imp, a tool of Satan, here to bring him home to eternal damnation.

He tried to move again then, to protest, to say no, I’ve been a good man.

But . . . had he?

He didn’t know. Couldn’t think. Again, there was that frightening blankness, pressing upon his mind like a white wall of fog.

The thing’s face was brown, hairy. The eyes were yellow. The face loomed over him, terrifying. Leaned closer, closer, touched his neck again. Coldness, moistness. An icy brush of metal.

Bells.

A bell on the neck of the thing: jangling, deafening.

A groan escaped him and the thing twitched back, startled by the sudden noise.

A goat. He was looking at a goat, not a devil.

He could almost have laughed at that, if he’d had the strength. But he didn’t. All he could do was lie there. Exhausted. Damaged. His eyes fluttered closed, and he hardly even heard the soft footsteps of the boy coming closer. Damned goat nudging him again. His eyes came open, the glare of the sun, buzzards, a nut-brown human face coming in close, blotting out the unbearable heat and light.

‘¿Señor?’ said the face. ‘¿Se cayó?’

He closed his eyes. He understood. Did you fall? the boy was asking him. But he couldn’t answer. He didn’t know. He didn’t know anything.

The goatherd gave the man water, then went to alert the monks at the nearby monastery. The boy was shaking with fright because he thought that by the time he returned with the help of the brothers, the man might be dead. But, when they got there, the brothers having struggled and panted and sweated with effort as they traversed the uneven and, in parts, treacherous rocky ground, the man seemed still to be clinging to life, even though his injuries were horrendous.

The brothers looked him over while the boy watched them nervously. They’d brought a stretcher from the monastery’s small sick room, but one look at the man – who wore nothing but a brief pair of swimming shorts – made them doubt he would survive the journey back up to the monastery.

Both ankles were shattered into bloody pulp.

His left arm was broken, the bone protruding through the skin, so bad was the break.

There was a deep, nasty-looking gash on his head. Flies buzzed there, feasting on the drying blood, laying their eggs in the open wound. His lips and the skin on his face were cracked from the extreme heat of the sun. He was feverish. God alone knew how long he had lain there on this precarious rocky platform above the sea, because the man was making no sense. He needed water, and shelter. And even then, the brothers warned his young rescuer, there was every chance that he would die.

‘Be warned, child, he might not get through this,’ one of them told him.

The boy, distressed, looked at the man. He had found him, rescued him. He felt an attachment for him, of course he did.

‘I don’t want him to die,’ he told the monks.

‘God may spare him,’ they said, and they looked at the man and thought that perhaps it would be better if God took him. He looked athletic, fit; he would not, they felt sure, relish a half-life. And they could already see that, if he survived, he was going to live out the rest of his life as a cripple.

Chapter 23

The monks had a long, hard and perilous job getting the man stretchered off the cliff and onto the nearest dirt track of a road. Once there, one of the younger brothers ran ahead to take the one battered old car the monastery possessed down to the village so that an ambulance could be called to take him to hospital in Palma. There was no phone at the monastery.

Brother Benito went with the poor wretch, who seemed to be drifting in and out of consciousness, murmuring foreign-sounding words under his breath.

‘Who is he?’ asked the medics.

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